


Branded (The Is He From Heaven or From Hell Remix)

by iberiandoctor (jehane)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Branding, Identity Porn With Your Soulmate, M/M, Montreuil-era, Redemption, Remix, Soulmates feel each other's pleasure and pain, Toulon-era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-30 21:52:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12117957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/pseuds/iberiandoctor
Summary: Jean-le-Cric says the same thing to the convicts of the bagne when they ask -- that he has no soulmate. They either think he’s lying, or that he’s broken somehow, but it’s better than them knowing his soul is bound to that of a guard.





	Branded (The Is He From Heaven or From Hell Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [halfeatenmoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfeatenmoon/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The brand upon his soul](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11086170) by [halfeatenmoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfeatenmoon/pseuds/halfeatenmoon). 
  * In response to a prompt by [halfeatenmoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfeatenmoon/pseuds/halfeatenmoon) in the [remixrevivalmadness2017](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/remixrevivalmadness2017) collection. 



_You will know your soulmate in pleasure and pain_. This was how everyone in Faverolles described it; it was how his sister, Jeanne, had known her husband was the one for her. 

And yet when other boys and girls in the village found their mates by playing games that ended in a kick, or a kiss, Jean was never so lucky. Like the others, he looked forward to the spark of recognition beyond the sting of a blow or thrill of a touch -- but it was a spark that never came.

Then Jeanne's husband died, and Jean did the unthinkable to try to save his sister's children. He was arrested, his life became nothing but pain -- and there was no partner to share it.

 

*

  


In Toulon, he was still alone. The other convicts said: _My poor darling, I've made her life hell as well as mine_ , and: _I'm going to get out of here for her sake, if it's the last thing I do._

Jean remained quiet. Let them think he had no soulmate; let them think him broken, and mock him for it. 

The truth was something even more unspeakable. 

Jean Valjean had been sentenced to five years’ imprisonment for his crime. As part of his sentence he had also been branded with the letter “T”, designating _travaux forcés_ or hard labour. He had been sent to that fearsome centre of remand in Bicêtre, where they riveted an iron collar around his neck and placed him into chains together with the other galley-slaves. After twenty-seven days they arrived in Toulon, where they were seized, stripped of their filthy rags, and held down, one by one.

Jean’s mind was a fog of exhaustion from his long journey. He knew he would never again see the sister and the little ones for whom he had committed this crime. He was forced to his knees; he felt hard, impersonal hands rip his garments from him and hold him in place. Dimly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the branding iron at the ready, glowing red-hot. 

The iron seared itself into the meat of his shoulder. He heard his own voice crack with screams; he could smell his own burning flesh. This was _wrong_ , monstrously wrong -- he did not then have the words for the injustice that had been done to him, but he felt its grievance deep within his soul.

And then, he felt something else that was every bit as wrong. 

It was as though a new part of his body had blazed to life, with a cold, unswerving satisfaction that seemed to come from out of nowhere. Suddenly the hands that gripped him were no longer impersonal. Suddenly he felt a storm of confusion, the mirrored sensation of his own blinding pain -– and he realised that the guard at his side could feel everything he felt.

The guard -- fingers digging viciously into his arm, holding him down to be branded like an animal -- was his soulmate. His soulmate, who would share with him every moment of pleasure and pain, for the rest of their mortal lives. 

An adjutant-guard: so young, and yet so heartless, not a shred of mercy within him.

Jean was dragged away. His skin was on fire with agony. He could barely stand as he was released from the collar and shackles and a red smock was thrust over his nakedness. At least he did not have to meet the eyes of the guard to see if he, too, recognised the bond that they had just formed. 

Jean felt aching and empty; his family, his freedom, taken cruelly away. But even worse than the loss of his liberty was the loss of the future he had grown up desiring -- the dream of being able to share his life with a partner he loved. 

 

*

 

Jean-le-Cric, nicknamed Jean-the-Jackscrew for his great strength, spent nineteen loveless years in the hellhole that was Toulon -- freezing in the winter, sweltering and riddled with sickness in the heat of summer. He watched his fellows leave the bagne to rejoin their mates, or die of disease or madness and forever leave their mates behind. 

Worse than his lack of love was the delight Jean’s soulmate took in enforcing the pitiless arm of the law against him. When the torment of his imprisonment was too great for him, when he was on the verge of being driven insane by Javert’s relentless certainty, Jean embarked on a series of attempts at escape that added to his initial sentence. 

He knew flight was futile; knew that Javert would always find him, able as he was to track him down from every flare of emotion that coursed through Jean’s veins. They never spoke a word about their bond; they only touched when Javert set hands upon him to fetch him back to captivity, but the grim look of approval in Javert’s eyes, the bright flare of his pleasure in bringing the criminal to justice, told him all he needed to know.

When Jean was finally released, he had no belief in love, and no other weapon but his hate. 

Betrayed by destiny, forever condemned by his own soulmate, Jean-le-Cric was on the brink of re-offending. Once again, he stole –- silver, this time, precious objects of great value, from none other than the Bishop of Digne –- but for the first time in his life, he was shown mercy.

 _Your soul belongs to no one but God, who will always love you,_ that good man said, and as Jean fell to his knees, his soul opened up and light poured in and for the first time he imagined the holy gift of Paradise.

 

*

 

He tore up his papers and left Jean Valjean’s criminal past behind him. He became Madeleine, the man who gave all his love to the people of Montreuil-sur-mer. He poured his heart and soul into the factory, into the town, and the village prospered under the loving stewardship of its Mayor, in the same way that a neglected garden flourishes and bears fruit under a new master’s tender care.

In this manner Madeleine spent five blissful years in Montreuil. In place of grinding despair, his days passed in quiet contentment, and the gratification of a second chance at life not squandered.

He should have known better. He should have known that truth would find him in good time.

After five years, his soulmate, now an inspector of police, arrived in Montreuil-sur-mer, drawn there by the fate that bound their souls together. Broader, older, but unquestionably the same Javert -- the lines of his face as familiar as his rigid bearing and the pitiless coldness of his soul.

Madeleine was poised to take flight -- but, wonder of wonders, Javert did not recognise him. 

Perhaps it was because they did not have occasion to touch, when the spark of the soul-bond would have been unmistakable. Perhaps Madeleine had, thanks to the Bishop and the good people of Montreuil, moved beyond both pleasure and pain. Whatever the reason, Inspector Javert did not realise that the Mayor was in truth the shameful soulmate of his youth.

Madeleine ought to have escaped. He ought to have taken advantage of his good fortune and fled before the soul-bond was rediscovered. But he could not bring himself to leave the town he loved so deeply. And Javert, who was blind to his true identity, Javert grew to trust him, and Madeleine found he could not tear himself away from the man’s side.

“Your leadership of this city is admirable,” Javert had remarked to him, when they first met. “There is such depravity in France, even in many parts of this town, and yet you’ve brought such order.”

“I suppose I have,” Madeleine said, slowly. For the first time, he saw esteem in Javert’s eyes; saw, also, how surprisingly long-lashed and dark they were, how pleasing, when they were not full of disgust or shame.

Javert replied, “I came through this town many years ago in pursuit of a convict, and it was beset by scum. You have transformed it, Monsieur le Maire. You’ve done justice for the people here.”

Madeleine could not look away from that admiring gaze. With some difficulty, he said, “What does justice mean to you, Inspector? Simply the eradication of crime?”

“Of course not,” Javert said, and Madeleine could not mistake the note of respect in the Inspector’s voice. “You are the town’s head, and I am its fist -– of course we must act in different ways. But we can create a just society by working together.”

Despite himself, Madeleine felt his heart swell, treacherously, at Javert’s talk of shared duties, about their striving together to build something greater than themselves. “I rule with kindness,” he managed to say.

“I would expect nothing less,” Javert responded, with a crooked half-smile, and Madeleine told himself that the dangerous frisson of emotion that he felt did not come from their soul-bond in any way at all.

 

* 

 

In Montreuil, the months became years, full of hazard and perilous sweetness. Every day, every week, Madeleine told himself he must make plans to flee, to escape before the scales fell from Javert’s eyes and the Inspector saw the mayor for who he truly was. 

And every day, every week, there was a new excuse to delay his flight. Javert was profoundly competent at his work, and had many ideas for the betterment of the town’s infrastructure, the sanitation, the safety on the roads of Montreuil and the surrounding regions. While the Inspector’s methods of policing were severe, Madeleine had to acknowledge that they kept the town’s lawless element in check and substantially lowered the levels of crime amongst the populace. 

Nor could Madeleine deny that, over the weeks and months, their working together improved the lives of the people. And as summer gave way to winter and then the days lengthened once again, the Mayor slowly realised that their joint efforts had indeed given rise to something far greater than either of them could have achieved on their own: a peaceful, prosperous city.

Madeleine knew how foolish it was, but he was aware how, with the passage of time, his feelings for Javert had altered. He now saw how the young guard’s unbending will had been the source of the inspector’s tireless diligence; how Javert’s relentless pursuit of justice could equally be channelled to a resolute dedication to do good. Madeleine could see a growing warmth in that previously cold, purposeful regard; saw in that hard face a passion and intellect that had been roused to protect as well as pursue; saw in the large, crushing hands -- whose cruelty he had known all too well -- a strength that could shelter the weak instead of striking them down. 

It was sheer foolishness, but Madeleine realised he had, despite himself, begun to harbour the old dream: of being able to share his life with a partner he loved.

Then the day came when that dream was dashed to pieces.

A wet morning, an accident took place in the Cavée Saint-Firmin, the steep road at the entrance to the upper city. Father Fauchelevent had fallen beneath his cart. The horse had two broken legs and could not rise, and the old man was caught in the wheels. 

When Madeleine arrived, a crowd had gathered. Javert was already on the scene, giving instructions for a jack-screw to be sent for. The closest one was at M. Flachot's residence a quarter of an hour away. The ground was muddy, and the cart was sinking; it was obvious the jack-screw would not arrive in time. No one would risk their lives to help: not for five louis, or fifty.

For one agonising instant, Madeleine shrank back from the right path. Had he not done enough? Let someone else save the old man; leave the Mayor to continue his good works for the people of Montreuil-sur-mer, and to live out his life at the side of a partner who had finally become the other half of his soul. 

Then conscience reasserted itself. The man who called himself Madeleine knew what he had to do.

Down in the mud, bracing his back against the cart, Jean Valjean took up his burden, and surrendered his one chance at happiness.

"No!" Javert cried. His voice seemed very far away, but he had come recklessly close to the cart, heedless of the danger. One hand grasped Valjean’s shoulder, fingers tight over the brand that was hidden by the mayor’s fine clothes. "You cannot. Monsieur, please, it will crush you too, and I can't..."

 _I can't lose you,_ he sent, his frantic mind-touch hot and intimately familiar, as it had been that day when the branding iron had seared itself into the flesh of Jean-le-Cric. 

As Valjean began to lift the cart, taking the agonising encumbrance onto his shoulders, he knew the same crushing pain had seized Javert and sent him sprawling on his knees in the mud, taking possession of the Inspector through that accursed, unbreakable bond.

Valjean shuddered under that massive load, his muscles on fire, barely able to keep hold of the impossible weight. And yet the torment of his body could not compare to the sheer anguish in his soul. Javert’s mouth was hanging open, disregarded tears in his eyes, seeing at last, and looking as bereft as if Valjean had torn the soul from his body. 

All Javert's hope, everything that they had built together, brick by careful brick –- it had come to naught in the muck of Montreuil-sur-mer. 

As the others dragged Fauchelevent to safety from under the cart, Valjean knelt before his soulmate. He was at once in Heaven, for finally he could show himself openly to the man he loved, and in Hell, for now the chase would begin once again.

 

*

 

He left as he had planned. The man they had arrested, Champmathieu, was released. Valjean was unable to save Fantine, but he fulfilled his promise to her and rescued her child; together Cosette and he fled Montfermeil, Javert hot on their heels.

By God’s grace, they arrived at the convent of Petit-Picpus. Within its quiet white walls and gardens, Cosette grew like a flower in the sun, and Valjean’s spirit lifted as he watched her, as he left his old life and the outside world behind.

Jean Valjean spent six years at Petit-Picpus, meditating on Heaven, trying to save his soul from Hell. He told himself it did not matter if his soulmate continued to search for him in the world beyond the convent, for he had himself left all worldly things behind.

The years passed, and Valjean had thought himself beyond pleasure and pain, beyond considerations of the heart. When Cosette had grown and wished to see the world beyond the convent, he had no reason to deny her.

He was, of course, mistaken. The world had its way of finding them. By the time he noticed the tall lad that lurked in the shadows of their garden at Rue Plumet, it was too late. He ought to have observed him with Cosette at the Jardin du Luxembourg; he should have watched them clasp hands, in joy that they had found each other at last, and grief that they should soon be parted.

Out of duty, Valjean followed Marius to the barricades, to rescue the boy from himself. 

And there, amongst the young rebels at the Rue de la Chanvrerie, he discovered the other half of his soul -- captured by the rebels and trussed to a table in the wine-shop 

There was grey in Javert’s hair, and new lines in that severe face. Still, his tall body was as lean and strong under the workingman’s disguise as it had been when he had worn the uniform of the patrouille grise. 

His eyes flared with the heat Valjean recognised. Valjean took hold of him, feeling the familiar connection run through them both.

The rope wound painfully around Javert’s body, rubbing raw the skin of his wrists and rousing him to shameful, swollen indignity. Even worse was the humiliation and confusion of Javert’s thoughts: thoughts Valjean could once again read, as clear as day.

 _Fate has led him to me_ , and _am I about to shame myself before him_ , and _I would sooner die_.

Valjean led Javert out of the wine-shop, into the side lane at the Rue de Mondetour. When they were out of the sight of the rebels, Valjean set his rifle against the wall, took out his knife, and cut the rope that held Javert captive.

"You can't do this," Javert hissed. Valjean had not needed to say a word: his hands were trembling from the overwhelming desire to set Javert at liberty, and he had no doubt Javert could feel this too. "Valjean, you have to kill me."

"I can't do that," Valjean replied. It was the truth; he could have sooner slit his own throat than harmed the man. Javert swayed on his feet, and Valjean had to hold him up; he felt the urgent roil of Javert’s thoughts under his own skin, beating in time with the thunder of his heart.

"Why not?” Javert asked. His voice was shaking, the shared pain and pleasure threatening to overpower him. “This way you can be free."

Valjean said, slowly, referring to their bond for the first time: "Do you truly think I could harm my soulmate without harming myself?"

Javert closed his eyes, as if the thought of hurting Valjean was painful to him, and a moment later Valjean experienced that pain for himself. 

"Keep me a prisoner, then, if you won't kill me. Or let one of the others do it instead and let me die with honour, for if I am released I must do my duty and arrest you."

Valjean could not mistake the hot surge of Javert’s emotions: pride, and confusion, and underneath it, the ache of so many years spent apart. 

He said, slowly, "For a long time, I couldn't understand how you could be so cruel, why my soul had been bound to one so entirely without mercy. But I find I now understand."

Javert scowled. His cravat had come loose, baring his undefended throat. "Understand what?"

"That you have never been shown kindness. I've felt your pain, all these years; because of it you’ve never been at peace." 

Valjean knew, of course, for there could be no longer any secrets between soulmates. He put a hand on Javert’s cheek, the sensation of Javert’s skin both excruciating and exquisite. "I was shown kindness by another, and I learned how kindness changes people. We helped Montreuil-sur-mer, the both of us, with kindness and compassion. And maybe, in that way, we also helped ourselves.”

He stared into Javert’s eyes and saw all the way down into Javert’s soul: as lonely and desperate as any bagnard’s -- saw an officer of the law who had been cruelly compelled by duty to hunt down the man he was fated to love.

“I want to give you the kindness that this life has denied you. So that maybe you can find peace, too."

"That's what you want?" Javert grabbed a fistful of Valjean's uniform jacket. "Peace? For me? Not your freedom, not mercy, not anything else?"

"Yes. Take me in later if you wish; I am prepared to surrender quietly. But I'm letting you go because I want you to live, and I want you to be free to find peace."

Javert recoiled; the sting of refusal felt to Valjean like a slap to the face. He tightened his grip on Valjean’s jacket as if he meant to tear away yet another disguise and expose Toulon’s brand upon Valjean's shoulder.

Across the soul-bond, the first instants of pleasure felt almost identical to intense pain: rejection cast from the same metal as acceptance, fear indistinguishable from love. Javert could flee; he could insist on arresting Valjean; he could take Valjean's weapon and shoot him. Valjean knew Javert would not choose any of those things. Instead, there was the grip of Javert’s fingers in his lapels and the press of Javert’s body against his -- a rush of emotion that was and wasn’t his -- and then Javert was leaning in. 

It was like the rightness of prayer in the Almighty’s heavenly presence; like the relief of awakening each morning and knowing himself free of the bagne. Javert’s mouth on his was rough and warm, and sweeter than anything he'd ever imagined. Best of all, he felt Javert’s own pleasure, his surrender, magnified a hundredfold through their bond, filling body and soul with desire, as well as a swelling undercurrent that Valjean slowly realised was tenderness.

They were interrupted by voices at the other end of the alleyway. Valjean pushed Javert away, took up his rifle, and fired a shot into the air.

"It's done!" Valjean shouted in the direction of the voices. "I'll rejoin you shortly!"

"You can't go back," said Javert. His clothes were in disarray, his hair standing on end, and Valjean had never cherished anything more.

Valjean whispered, "Marius is still there. I cannot leave without him."

"And you think I would leave without _you_?" Javert said, the anger in his voice not quite masking the fear they both could feel.

"I’m not the one in danger." Valjean kissed him again, and then reluctantly let him go. “When this is over, come and look for me at No. 7 Rue de l‘Homme-Armé.”

Javert took a few steps, then looked back. "I don’t think I can leave you," he said, not entirely steady.

"I’ll have you with me, here," Valjean said. He pressed a hand to his heart, feeling it at last beat with a rhythm that was and was not his own. "Whatever happens, I know you’ll find me, as you always have."

“I always will,” Javert said, and for the first time it was as welcome as a promise. He touched his own heart, briefly, then straightened his cravat and briskly set off in the direction of Les Halles.

**Author's Note:**

> So many thanks to miss m for the beta!


End file.
